


A Hard Truth

by veiledndarkness



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4864748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It must be madness, he thinks. Nothing else could explain this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't any season specific, no real spoilers.

-

Cold fingers, colder toes seeking warmth around his calves. Thin arms, too thin, one wrapped around his chest, chilled fingers clutching at his skin, burrowing under the duvet cover. The room's cool, a draft filled space that leaves goosebumps on the man wrapped around him. 

He doesn't feel it himself. He runs hot in bed. 

There's rain pattering against the window pane, rhythmic and steady, drenching the streets outside. The skies had opened up hours before, bruised storm clouds rolling in with the sunset and washing out the world. The rain's cold, nothing but heavy drops that splat on window glass between ticks of the clock on the nightstand. 

He doesn't move, lest he disturb the slumber of the man he's got a proprietary arm on.

He watches from the corner of his eye as the rain streaks down, illuminated by the shadows on his wall. The clock ticks on, and he looks to the floor, to the piles of clothing strewn across the carpet, to the empty bottles littered on the coffee table at the far end of the room. 

This is madness, he thinks absently, letting his gaze wander to the tufts of black hair tickling under his chin. His mind is hazy, alcohol soaked, and he supposes he could blame the booze in the morning but he's not so certain that he wants to. He's not one to shy away from hard truths. 

This truth however...he exhales carefully, his breath ruffling the soft peaks of hair. He's tempted to bury his face in the dark strands, to breathe in. His heart pounds at the thought, at the memory of before, and he can still feel those cold fingertips on his skin, greedily touching as much as he'd dared to, as if at any minute the privilege would be gone.

It was madness, it has to have been, though there's hardly a regret to be found. 

This is crazy. It can't work, it... _can't_. He can't justify it. And yet...part of him wants this, wants it more than he can believe. The idea of never touching, never again...the thought aches. It must be madness, because he wants more already, he wants with every fibre of his being.

He sighs, watching Oswald's chest rise and fall, watching him scrunch his nose as he dreams, his lips twitching, still kiss swollen, cheeks still flushed from before. He's tracing a line of small bruises that he knows he left on Oswald's neck earlier when he feels him stir, feels the weight of his sleepy stare. 

"Jim?" he whispers, blinking slowly. He seems years younger in this moment.

"It's fine," he murmurs back, running his thumb over Oswald's bottom lip, his skin tingling at the lightest touch.

He nods, accepting this, and curls up closer, tucking one hand over Jim's chest, feeling his heartbeat with the tips of his cold fingers, mostly asleep in a matter of minutes.

Madness, and he can't understand how, or why, but it must be because he feels more than he ever wanted to, and he's tired of saying no to himself, but mostly...mostly because once isn't going to be enough. 

It can't work. 

Jesus, he wants it to.

-


	2. Chapter 2

\- 

It's still raining in the morning, a fine misty drizzle that coats the wet streets. 

It's early, grey and gloomy, no sunrise this morning for Gotham, he thinks, as he nurses a mug of surprisingly good coffee from Oswald's kitchen. There's few people out and about, umbrellas grasped in tight knuckles as they scurry down the sidewalks, dodging the puddles everywhere. 

He savours the next sip of coffee, eyes half lidded in pleasure. It beats the swill in the precinct, Hell, it doesn't even compare. 

He's tired, his head aches, and he's only half dressed. Morning afters aren't usually his thing, at least, not when they occur in this manner. It's been far too long and he's more nervous than he'd care to admit. There's a certainty in knowing that he can't call this a mistake that makes his breath catch. He can't defend it, no, not even with the excuse of alcohol at his disposal.

He wants it again. 

"Jim?"

There's a reflection in the bedroom window approaching and he pauses, lowers the borrowed mug, and suppresses the hesitation, the panic that wants to emerge.

Oswald merely looks at him, ever observant, head tilted slightly. It's as if he wants to ask something, as if the usual platitudes are required, and Jesus, the thought of making small talk has him all tongue-tied. 

He thinks fast, and all the things he could say, that he wants to say, freeze in his mouth. I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, we can't ever...he swallows, choking down the jagged words before they escape his lips.

"I'm," he tries, his voice uneven and morning rough. "Are you..."

Oswald's lips curl up in the smallest quirk of amusement and he huffs out a little breath, shrugging. "Is this the moment where you tell me that this was nothing?"

Bitter barbs, but he can hear the real question being asked. 

"It'd be a lie then."

"Oh?" 

He sets the mug down on the window sill ledge, the floorboards chilled under his bare toes as he leans in. Oswald's got his chin pointed up, defiant yes, but Jim sees past his facade at this moment, sees the man expecting rambling excuses and stony silences. 

He's wrapped in a robe that's just this side of too big for him, his thin frame enclosed in expensive fabric that's begging to be ripped off, and Jim wants nothing more than to tear the fabric clean from him and lick each possessive mark he left on Oswald the night before.

The desire is wild, raw, and impatiently humming through his blood. 

"Should I lie?" He asks as he looks the other man over, taking in his sleep mussed hair, his lips thinned with the expected rejection, and he wants, he _wants_ so much to pretend that this can work.

Oswald's blinking fast, caught off guard. He looks away for a moment, a wan smile forcing through. "You still surprise me at times, Jim," he finally says as he closes the short distance between them.

"You and me both," Jim murmurs, tipping Oswald's chin up with his finger. This close, he can see the tiny freckles on Oswald's cheekbones, hardly visible in the dim morning light. 

It's a slow kiss, the gentlest brush of lips, and his heart pounds madly all the while, dizzy from no more than a simple touch. Oswald exhales, heat flushing his face, and he whispers Jim's name as he fists his hands in the open sides of Jim's rumpled dress shirt.

Oswald catches his gaze and he can't look away. There's countless things to be said and there's so much more that they're ignoring at this moment, but he's moving then, pulling Oswald with him back to the bed, mindful as always of his leg, warm hands covering Oswald's chilled fingers. 

He'll think about it all later, he vows as he kisses him again, stripping away the robe between them.

There'll be time to worry later.

-


End file.
